


A Matter of Taste

by scarletmanuka



Series: A Matter of Love [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Head Injury, M/M, Sibling Incest, Taste disorder, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 07:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10826691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletmanuka/pseuds/scarletmanuka
Summary: Dysgeusia - Distortion or perversion in the perception of a tastant. An unpleasant perception may occur when a normally pleasant taste is present, or the perception may occur when no tastant is present (gustatory hallucination).





	A Matter of Taste

**Author's Note:**

> The fourth interlude after A Matter of Trust, however can be read as a one shot :)

It didn’t matter how many times Mycroft Holmes got the call that his brother was in hospital; his heart threatened to come to a halt in his chest each time. It was John who had called, advising that his brother had sustained a head injury and although he’d be fine, they were keeping him in overnight for observation. He’d asked Anthea to reschedule his meeting with the PM and the Minister of Education and he’d hurried down to St Bart’s.

He passed Lestrade in the hallway, the DI just leaving. He gave Mycroft a wry smile as the statesman approached. “Mycroft, we really must stop meeting like this - people will talk.”

He found himself relaxing a miniscule amount, knowing the man wouldn’t joke at all if the situation was serious. John had told him not to worry, and he should have trusted the opinion of  a doctor, but when it came to his brother’s well being, Mycroft trusted Lestrade above all others. He had been his first ally when it came to Sherlock after all. “People do little else,” he retorted.

“True.” The silver haired policeman hooked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the room he’d just left. “The nurse was just doing some obs when I left but she should be done now.”

“It appears I have excellent timing.”

“Almost as excellent as your impeccable style.”

Over the years Lestrade had often made such comments and for a while, Mycroft had wondered if the man had been flirting. It didn’t seem to fit with his deductions of him and had left him rather confused. He made a comment to Sherlock one day and his brother pointed out that the DI was just nice to everyone and that’s what he was doing - simply giving a compliment because he enjoyed making people feel good about themselves. The concept was so foreign to him that the confusion must have been evident on his face. His brother had just patted him on the back and sympathised that he didn’t understand other humans either. “You’re too kind, Gregory,” he told him, gracing him with one of his rare smiles.

“Just honest. I won’t hold you up anymore, I know you’ll be wanting to see for yourself that your brother’s alright. Take care, Mycroft.”

“And you,” he said, nodding to Lestrade and continuing on his way to the room which was hosting the consulting detective. 

The nurse had left and John was sitting in one of the chairs, holding a fork out to Sherlock. “You need to eat, Sherlock, or those pills they just gave you are going to make you feel queasy.”

Sherlock took the utensil, scowling, but it was soon replaced with a wan smile as he saw his brother. “Hello, Mycie.” 

“Hello, Sherlock,” he said, stepping into the room and leaning his umbrella against the wall. “What have you gone and done now?” Mycroft crossed to the bed and gently took his brother’s face between his palms, pressing a kiss to his forehead and then turning his head so he could see the extent of the injury. He wasn’t bandaged and didn’t appear to have been bleeding, but the curls at the back of his skull were mussed and matted from the examination. He knew if he touched the area he would likely find a nasty lump. 

“It wasn’t my fault,” Sherlock muttered against his palm as he head was turned. 

“Which is actually the truth this time, believe it or not,” John added.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the doctor. “Indeed?”

“Yeah, some drongo thought it would be a good idea to try and escape police custody and made a run for it. We were just arriving at the Yard and he careened into Sherlock, knocking him down the front steps.”

“At least I caught the man,” Sherlock said sulkily.

“Yes, by acting as a human roadblock,” John replied. “Well done. Now eat your damn lunch.”

Mycroft gave his brother’s cheek one last caress and then sat down in the second visitor chair. He watched as Sherlock leaned back against the raised bed very gingerly and he winced in sympathy. Other than the knock on the head, it appeared he was bruised from his tumble down the steps. He poked at the food on the plate and then lifted a forkful of what appeared to be Shepherd’s Pie to his mouth. His face screwed up in a grimace as he chewed, and he pushed the plate away. “Oh, that’s absolutely horrid,” he complained. “I’m not eating that.”

“It’s hospital food, Sherlock, not a meal from a Michelin Star restaurant,” Mycroft chided gently. 

“Yes,  _ horrible _ hospital food. It’s not even edible.”

John picked up the fork and took a bite, then turned a withering look on his flatmate. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with it. Stop being difficult for the sake of being difficult.”

“I’m not!” the younger man protested. “That’s truly disgusting!” 

The doctor scooped another mouthful onto the fork and shoved it towards Sherlock’s mouth, forcing it inside. His muffled protest was cut off as his face scrunched up, and he leant forward and spat the food onto the plate. “Oh, really? Come on, Sherlock, there’s no need to be so childish,” John said in exasperation.

The detective grabbed at the glass of water and chugged down a few healthy swallows. He held the glass up in front of his face, eyeing it warily. “I’m not been childish, John. If I’m forced to eat that, I will undoubtedly vomit.” He thrust the glass towards Mycroft. “Taste this. Does this taste metallic to you?”

The elder Homes took a tentative sip and then shook his head. “No, it tastes fine, Sherlock.”

Sherlock peered at his brother in suspicion, seemingly trying to find out if he was lying. When he was convinced he wasn’t, he turned to John and said, “It appears my sense of taste is all skewed. Why?”

John’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Head injuries can cause dysgeusia,” he mused. “It’s probably that.”

“Do they need to run some tests?” Mycroft asked, his brow tightening with concern.

“It’s pretty much just this,” John said, waving towards Sherlock and his discarded meal. “It’s very hard to  _ test _ for gustatory disorders, since taste and smell are so entwined. They’ll probably want to do some scans to rule out a brain tumour, but given the concussion, that’s just a precaution.” He caught the way Mycroft’s face paled. “Honestly, Mycroft, it’s nothing to worry about. His sense of taste and smell might be a bit wonky for a while but it will eventually go back to normal.”

“Eventually?” Sherlock repeated in horror. “How long is that in measureable terms?”

“It varies from person to person, Sherlock,” the doctor explained. “It could be a day or two, it could be a few weeks. We won’t know until it’s over.”

The detective huffed and grumbled under his breath about the unfairness of it all. Neither Mycroft or John rushed to console him since they knew his theatrics would only just be the beginning. If he received any form of encouragement, they wouldn’t hear the end of it. Sherlock Holmes was  _ not _ an easy patient. When he flopped down on the bed and yelped in pain however, Mycroft did give his hand a squeeze of sympathy. He pulled Sherlock forward while John went in search of the detective’s  _ actual _ doctor to discuss the latest developments, and lifted up the gown to look at his back. It was covered in long, nasty looking bruises, where each step had collided with his ribs. Mycroft ran a finger gently over them, feeling the ridges of the scars he obtained in Serbia beneath the bruises, and then carefully lowered the gown back down. “Do you need anything for the pain?” he asked.

His brother shook his head. “I’ll manage. I just want to go home.”

“I know. Soon, brother dear, soon.”

John and the duty doctor returned to the room and Mycroft took the opportunity to step outside and call Anthea. From memory his schedule was rather light for the next few days and with luck, and some skillful rescheduling by his PA, he should be able to take a day or two off to stay with Sherlock while he recovered.

oOoOo

As trivial and almost comical as it had seemed at the time, the change to Sherlock’s taste receptors was having a rather devastating impact. He had been home from hospital for three full days now and had not eaten anything substantial the entire time. He would take a single bite, declare it horrible, and not eat any more. He would manage a strong cup of black coffee in the morning, but after that he drank very little, complaining of a strong metallic taste in the water, and a horrible sourness in even the freshest of milk. He had grown gaunt, pale, and listless, and had no energy.  

Mycroft and John had taken to having concerned, whispered conversations in the kitchen while Sherlock showered or napped, the doctor just as worried as Mycroft. His biggest worry was that Sherlock was becoming dehydrated and stated that if they didn’t manage to get fluids into him soon, he would find himself back in hospital with an IV. Mycroft phoned Anthea and told her he would be taking the rest of the week off as well and that she was to cancel all of his meetings. She heard the genuine worry in his voice and told him she would handle it.

They began to experiment with food and beverages, trying to find something that Sherlock found palatable. Mycroft ordered in takeaways from several places, laying out a veritable buffet in the kitchen that night. Sherlock picked at a few things, managing to eat a few mouthfuls of chilli basil beef from the Thai restaurant, but finding that even the smell of the Italian or Chinese made him nauseous. He managed to drink half a glass of an electrolyte drink before he muttered that he was tired and stumbled to bed. 

The following morning, John returned from Tesco laden down with bags and a determined expression on his face. He had purchased a variety of protein shakes, sports drinks, different flavoured teas, and even baby food to try and tempt Sherlock with. He explained to Mycroft that he thought something blander might be better, and at least they might get in some vitamins and protein this way. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason though to what Sherlock found he could tolerate and what made him want to vomit. Sweet, salty, sour, bland - some of it he could manage, most of it he couldn’t. When they found a rosehip tea that he drank an entire cup of, John went straight back to Tesco and bought another two packets of it.

That night, Mycroft retired when Sherlock did. His concern for his brother’s health was such that he himself was feeling exhausted. He cradled Sherlock in his arms and pressed kisses to his silky curls, breathing in the scent of his shampoo. He trailed one hand up and down his brother’s back, ignoring the feel of his fingers dropping into the dips between his ribs, more prominent than ever. A moment later he felt the distinct prodding of his brother’s erection against his thigh. He ignored it, hoping Sherlock would get some much needed rest, but it seemed his brother was feeling frisky.

Sherlock rolled them over so Mycroft was fully on his back and the lanky detective was half draped over him. He smiled at him in the dim light coming in from the window and then leaned down and started kissing along Mycroft’s jaw. There was a surprised grunt, and then his kisses became more insistent; needy, wet, open mouthed kisses moved down to his collarbone.

“Fuck, Mycie. You taste so  _ good _ ,” he gasped, his lips immediately moving back to his brother’s skin.

Mycroft started to laugh, and suddenly found he couldn’t stop. It was all so ridiculous - the one thing that Sherlock actually enjoyed the taste of was the one thing that wouldn’t provide any nutritional value. Although…

It seemed Sherlock had had the same thought because he leaned back, his eyes widening and a soft, “ _ Oh, _ ” on his lips, then he moved quickly downwards. He swallowed Mycroft’s cock to the root, sucking mercilessly, his hand moving to the shaft to help him along. The suction he was employing was almost painful, but also immensely pleasurable and soon Mycroft’s balls were pulling up, tightening against his body. It had been months since the older man had come so quickly but he was soon pulsing into his brother’s warm, wet mouth. Sherlock greedily swallowed it all down, moaning at the taste. He licked up every drop so he didn't miss any of it, and then climbed back up and collapsed against Mycroft’s chest. “Best meal  _ ever _ ,” he said happily.

When Mycroft’s brain stopped spinning from the mind blowing orgasm, he pulled Sherlock close into a tight hug. “Can I return the favour?” he asked.

“Nah, I’m fine, sleepy now,” Sherlock muttered. “You should get some sleep too. You need to make sure you’re rested for when I need my breakfast tomorrow morning.”

Soon the only sounds in the room were the soft snores of the younger man, but sleep didn't come quickly for Mycroft. He lay there and tried to think of the most delicate way he could ask John how to ensure his semen was as nutrient rich as it could possibly be for Sherlock to ingest. After almost an hour he had come to the conclusion that there wasn’t one. Instead, he tried to prepare himself for a horribly awkward conversation and hoped that Sherock would realise how much he was loved that Mycroft would willingly put himself through it. 

Of course, it wouldn’t  _ all _ be bad...his cock had started to twitch already in anticipation.

 


End file.
